Oliver laughed, surprised. ‘You’re quite close. Except that the food’s a million times better. And, considering it’s really only a country pub, it has the most amazing cellar.’

He means wine, Helen reminded herself, dispelling the image of a mysterious cobwebby recess beneath her feet.

Oliver nodded to the still-hovering waiter. At once a bottle was reverently brought, wrapped in a white napkin. Oliver tasted the half-inch of red wine which was poured into his glass, frowning, intent. Then another sharp nod to the waiter gave him the signal to fill Helen’s glass. She watched, intrigued, then picked up her glass and sniffed at it as Oliver had done. The wine smelt rich, fat and beguiling, quite unlike the smell of any wine she had tried before. And a single sip told her that it was indeed something very different.

‘This,’ said Oliver, ‘is burgundy. Gevrey-Chambertin, Clos St Jacques. Not quite the very greatest, but as good as one can find almost anywhere.’ He turned his glass to the light and looked at it intently, then drank. ‘Yes,’ he said at last, and Helen knew that she was forgotten.

After a moment Oliver looked up again and recollected himself. ‘One comes here for the game,’ he told her. ‘We’re having grouse, okay?’ She nodded, not caring if they were going to eat penguin.

In fact the food, when it came, didn’t appeal to her. The meat tasted strong and not very fresh. Helen ate what she could and gave all her attention to Oliver. In response, he set out to amuse her. She realised that when he chose, he could be excellent company. He made her laugh with stories of his own casual irresponsibility, and he swept the conversation along without making any more awkward demands on Helen’s self-protective quiet. He seemed to live in a world of parties, weekends in Town, as he called London, dining clubs – and, even less intelligibly to Helen – dogs and horses.

‘Do you do any work?’ she asked.

‘Not a jot.’ His beguiling smile drew her own in response. ‘I shall get a Third, of course. Just like my father. And his father, for that matter. My brother didn’t bother with a degree at all. What difference does it make?’ He shrugged amiably. ‘More wine?’

Halfway through the meal Oliver drained his glass, tipped the empty bottle sideways, then signalled to the waiter to bring another.

‘Another?’ Helen said it out loud, in spite of herself.

‘Of course another.’ Oliver looked faintly surprised. ‘The days of the one-bottle lunch are, as far as I am concerned, ancient history.’

He drank most of the burgundy, but he took care, too, to refill Helen’s glass whenever she drank a little.

After the grouse came thick, rich syllabub in little china cups, and then brandy which made even Helen’s fingers warm as she wrapped them round the glass.